


Mourning Colors

by Laure Alexander (ladyoneill)



Series: The Alpha Series [7]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/Laure%20Alexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime in the 19th century, Spike attends a funeral, laying the last member of his family to rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Colors

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on April 20, 2000, with the content warning of "pure sap" and an NC17 rating for some unknown reason because this would be G except I never use that rating. I've always liked the idea that William wasn't as barbaric as Angelus, that he could and did love. He wouldn't have killed his family. His youngest sister is named Catherine, which I have used in TEAOW&S as the name for his youngest child, as well. Cat for short.

She's buried at nine in the morning, but the angry dark clouds blot out nearly all the light. Lanterns glow warmly throughout the ancient plot.

There are nearly one hundred people there, braving the cold winds and threat of bitter rain. Heads bowed in prayer, bodies clothed in black. But, here and there I catch glimpses of color--a blue handkerchief in a man's breast pocket, a red ribbon in a girl's hair, a pale pink tulip in the hand of her eldest daughter. She so loved bright colors, even daring to forgo them when she came out.

That daring has carried through to these people, who bring color to the regimented somberness of Victorian mourning. They break the rules out of love. Even through the deep sorrow emanating from the cemetery, I can sense great love.

She was beloved by all those mourning her now.

Including me.

I stand in the shadows beneath a gnarled cedar tree, on the edge of the hallowed ground, well back from the mourners.

No one there would know me, yet I don't want to disturb them, her family and friends. Even the servants shed real tears.

Beloved, she was always that.

Over the decades I have kept track of her. I knew when she married, when she birthed her children, how she wept at the grave of her third son, born too young to survive. I knew she laughed at the weddings of her children, and mourned the death of her husband who preceded her to this plot three years ago.

From the occasional messages from bribed but well meaning servants and gossipy neighbors, I knew she was happy in her life, that if she didn't love her husband, she cared for him, and her children and their children in turn were the joys of her life.

I knew she still spoke of me on occasion, missing me in her life, wondering what had become of me, believing in her heart that I still lived.

Sometimes I have wanted so badly to go to her, but something always held me back. Usually it was the male in the carriage parked a dozen feet behind me. He has never understood my need to follow her life.

He brutally slaughtered all the members of his family, so how could he possibly understand why a part of me still cares for my sister? Even I don't understand it. My brothers, my parents, I never gave much of a thought to them in these past fifty years, but she was different, she was the best of all of us.

I'm glad she lived a long and happy life, and I'm glad that she has people to mourn her. I wish I could mourn her as well, but, even though I continued to care for her more than my sire understands, she was mostly a memory of sunshine and smiles.

Of a childhood long ago lost to darkness.

Time passes with the droning of the priest, and then the mourners begin to file away, leaving in small groups, heading to the manor on the hill where she spent the majority of her life. After the last has left the cemetery, I approach the grave.

The diggers step back respectfully, tipping their caps, and I drop gracefully to one knee, my fingers reaching for some loose dirt. I look down at the coffin six feet in the ground, and smile slightly.

It's blue.

The color of her eyes, nearly midnight yet glistening with light. Even after half a century I can remember those eyes gleaming mischief at me.

The coffin is covered with brightly colored flowers and the traditional dirt, and I let the humus trickle through my fingers and watch it scatter across a tangle of tulips. From my inner breast pocket I remove one scarlet rose cut from our greenhouse and raise it to my nose to inhale the scent.

"Goodbye, kitten," I murmur and watch the rose fall.

And I say goodbye to the last remnant of my human life, before rising to embrace the future.

End


End file.
